Collide
by fiveby10eighty3
Summary: Events after 06x08. Edith is coping after Bertie Pelham broke off with her, and thinks everything is final. There are, however, people making a second chance happen, including an unlikely family member. Will Bertie come round? And if he would, what would Edith do? Julian Fellowes and Carnival own Downton Abbey.
1. Chapter 1

**_I know, new story! But I'll still finish_** _It Happened At Grassby's_ ** _. Was totally heartbroken when Bertie broke it off with Edith. I'm still hoping that he'd come round-and soon! Meanwhile, here's something some of us hope would happen. Enjoy, and please let me know if you liked it or hated it!_**

* * *

 _After Mary's wedding_

 _Summer, 1925_

Edith didn't go home immediately after the wedding. She went to the graveyard and looked after three slightly feral children running about and playing tag.

Marigold, Sybbie and George looked so happy, that Edith didn't have the heart to put an end to the game. But thankfully, the children did become tired and hungry, and were clamouring to get home.

When she arrived home with the children, she decided to eat her luncheon with them in the nursery. For some reason, their presence comforted her, and their childish laughter gave cause for her to smile, if only a little while. Edith proposed a tea party for them, in the afternoon. Mary and Henry were going off to Italy for their honeymoon, and as happy as she is for her sister—yes, she could say that without the merest hint of jealousy—she just couldn't go down and send her off. The events of the past week drained her, and what she wanted—needed, rather, was a good sleep. She hadn't been sleeping properly since Bertie broke off with her.

Bertie. Edith sighed and shook her head. It was over for him, so what was the use of hoping he'd come round? Thankfully, she had _The Sketch_ to keep her busy, and of course, Marigold. Her daughter, despite what had happened, was the best thing that ever happened in her life. Love, after all, came in different forms, and Edith knew what she would focus on—her family, her daughter Marigold. _If I was able to rebuild my world after Michael's death, I could bloody well do this._

Except that it was difficult to carry out.

 _Wounds heal in time, don't they?_

Edith thought of the men she helped look after during the war. Some of them lost a limb, lost a finger, lost a leg, lost a foot. Some lost their face. And with it, their confidence, the courage to face the world, to be able to make themselves whole after the war, which was evidenced by one of the officers she made friends with. There were some lucky ones. She kept an active correspondence with Captain Smiley, as did his bride, who was eternally grateful to Edith for looking after her Captain, left hand or no. They wrote, showing photographs of babies, their new home. Edith was genuinely happy for them.

Others didn't have happy endings, though. There was Lieutenant Ransome, who committed suicide in 1920. His devastated mother wrote to Edith of his death. Then there was Mrs. Shelbourne. For a time, she didn't know what to do about her husband's shell shock. A cousin of Major Shelbourne was an Anzac, and had shell shock too. He sought the treatment of an Albert Logue in Australia.

 _How did he recover? And for how long?_

 _No matter how long it takes, I can do it. If they could, I can._

* * *

"Auntie Edith, where do you think Mummy's going to her nunnymoon with my new Daddy?" George asked Edith eagerly as they were having afternoon tea at the nursery. Mary and Henry were, by now, on the train to Liverpool, where they were boarding on a ship to Italy. Edith giggled a little at her nephew's mention of "nunnymoon". She stood up, and then walked to the bookcase from which she took a large atlas, and opened it to a page, showing the map of Italy. Henry was invited by some friends to stay in an estate near Lake Como, and decided that a honeymoon was the perfect occasion to visit Italy. The children talked about how far Italy was from Downton, and Edith told them that they would have to go on a ship.

Edith remembered a visit to that country with her family. She was turning sixteen, and it was the perfect summer. So perfect, that she produced an entire collection of watercolour paintings. She let Sybil go along with her as she drew and painted, as she was good at pointing out places that were perfect for sketching. Mary, on the other hand, was ambivalent, but when the drawings were produced, she admired, albeit grudgingly, Edith's work and thawed considerably when Edith mentioned Sybil's contribution. Surprisingly, that trip had occurred with nary a single instance of quarrelling.

Edith hoped that Mary would enjoy her stay in Lake Como. Michael loved that place, and he planned to take her, Edith, to Villa Carlotta, where he made friends with the owner. The pictures Michael showed her years ago were exquisite, and surpassed even Cornwall.

"Have you seen the place where Aunt Mary and Uncle Henry are going?" Sybbie asked Edith. She only shook her head.

* * *

 _The Dower House_

 _A week later_

Violet Crawley couldn't help but be impressed with the way Edith raised her daughter. Not that she found anything wanting with the way Mary raised George, or Tom with young Sybil, but Edith was pretty much involved, and refused to conform with tradition. Marigold seemed to have put a spell on her. The two year old girl made the least amount of fuss, but was smiling all the time at Violet.

"She's very well-behaved," Violet commented. Edith smiled. "Isn't she, Granny? She likes the company of Sybbie and George, but there are times that she keeps to herself. I know I shouldn't wrap her in cotton wool forever, but I don't want her making the same mistakes I made, even if she's only two."

Violet reached out for Edith's hand. "Give her time to be a little girl," she said gently. Her granddaughter took it, and said, "I will, Granny. She's all I have, Granny. Well, apart from Mama and Papa, by way of family."

Violet took a sip of her tea, and looked at the young woman sitting across from her. Much has happened to her granddaughter. Being jilted at the altar, the father of her great granddaughter dead, but Edith rose above her tribulations. Gone was the petulant woman who loved to complain, and in her place was a quiet, composed young mother and head of a magazine business. Violet would not fully say that Edith Crawley was very confident now, but she had grown up, and it gave her some sort of serenity.

"How are you?" Violet asked Edith, who smiled and shook her head, saying, "I'm getting there. I was thinking of all the convalescents we looked after during the war. Those who have lost a limb, or had their faces badly disfigured. They have scars, visible and invisible, and I don't know how long it would take for them to fully recover. My invisible scar will take time to heal. But I'm all right, Granny. I have darling Marigold and the magazine to occupy me, not to mention a niece and a nephew to spoil."

Violet grimaced. "Don't give too many of those Rowntree's sweets. Nanny Paulson complains that Sybbie and George tend to climb the walls, they get very rambunctious when they consume too much sugar."

Edith grinned and replied, "Oh Granny. I'm sure Nanny didn't mean it literally. All the same, I'll regulate, otherwise Mary would lop off my head if she returns finding that George no longer has any teeth."

Violet remembered something. Edith's young man—oh, the new Lord Hexham. She liked him, even when he was _only_ Bertie Pelham. What a sad business it was, Edith losing him because of her secret. "Won't Lord Hexham come round? Is it really the end?"

Edith shook her head. "It is, for him." Violet heard the note of finality in her granddaughter's voice. Shaking her head, Violet said, "Then he's not the man I thought he is. However, I don't think this is final. He hasn't seen anything yet."

With an emotion akin to horror, Edith thought of the things her grandmother would do. Possibly— _no, perish the thought,_ Edith inwardly flinched. Her grandmother, she thought, was a fiendishly clever woman. But she only smiled and said, "Don't do anything that I wouldn't, Granny." She stood up, and she scooped up Marigold, then set her down again. Pressing a kiss on her grandmother's forehead, she said her au revoir. "See you at dinner tonight."

Violet only raised her eyebrow. But she chuckled after her granddaughter left.


	2. Chapter 2

**I know, I know-IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME. But I've been working on this for a long, long time. And here's chapter 2 for you, guys!**

* * *

It has been weeks since Bertie-Herbert Pelham, rather, took over as Lord Hexham. Weeks since he returned from Tangiers.

Try as he might, he still couldn't get Edith out of his mind. He had terrible dreams while he was at Tangiers. Dreams of Edith finding someone else. One ghastly night, Bertie had a dream in which he read an announcement of betrothal in a newspaper. Of Edith's Mr. Gregson turning up alive after all, divorced and available for marriage. He didn't understand why he was dreaming of these things. For him, it was final. He couldn't be with Edith. End of discussion. End of story.

Bertie tried to move on, but the opposite always happened. It was like a chant in his mind. _Forget Edith. She didn't trust you. She kept you in the dark. Move on. You can find someone else._ Nonetheless, Edith was always in his mind.

Another part of him, however, wanted to see her again, to hold her in his arms. To tell her that all was forgiven, they would be married, and he would whisk her and little Marigold to Brancaster, where they could build a little kingdom and have a family.

 _It's all an idle pipe dream now, Herbert. Get a move on._

Long before he died, Peter, his late cousin was supposed to marry Adela Graham. But Peter wanted other things, desired other things that a match between Addie, as she was called, and Peter-was totally out of the question. Both Peter and Addie would have ended up miserable, thought Bertie.

Heaven forbid if Addie Graham should decide that _he,_ Herbert Pelham should marry her.

If he wasn't going to spend his life with Edith Crawley, no other woman would do.

Out across the hallway, the clock struck ten in the morning. And he was not halfway done with the mail. Bertie knew that he was only exaggerating-but he couldn't help but feel suffocated while dealing with the correspondence. A great many of them were letters of condolence-black edged note papers filled with lines full containing less than sincere sympathies. One letter was from Peter's solicitor Harrington, which was, no doubt, pages expressing his sympathies (sincere, Bertie was sure, as Peter was a capital fellow and was kind to everyone, and Harrington was more a friend and confidante than just a solicitor), as well as death duties, the financial health of the estate, of which Bertie was confident that he would have a good report, as he was the estate agent, and he closely followed Peter's investments, and the minutiae of the estate operations.

Bertie couldn't believe his eyes at the next letter.

It was from Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

It was long since he had heard of the formidable old dame. Did she have news of Edith?

 _There you again, old boy. Edith. Edith. You can't stop thinking about her, can't you?_

The Dowager Countess' didn't mince her words, and it was fairly obvious from the copperplate cursive that seemed to have leapt from the cream-coloured, black edged stationery.

 _Dear Lord Hexham,_

 _I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, although that might be easier said than done._

 _It is unfortunate that I have never made my acquaintances with your deceased cousin. I am sure, however, that his time in the world has touched other people's lives, including yours. With that, I do extend my sincerest sympathies._

 _Having expressed my condolences, I shall no longer beat around the bush._

 _I am also writing about my granddaughter Edith. It would not be necessary to tell you how heartbroken she is, and bearing up well despite your broken engagement._

 _But I know that she is only putting up a brave face, and I am grateful that she has plenty of things to occupy her. Because she has something else to live for._

 _While I am sad that Edith has not told you sooner, leaving her older sister to reveal a secret that is not hers, please, be reminded for a while that it is not often easy for a woman with a child out of wedlock to tell the man she loves-no matter how much she loves him-that she has a child by another man. It would always be a gamble. And over time, many a woman has lost that gamble._

 _As a woman who knows her granddaughter inside out, Edith has always grown up with little confidence in herself. Meeting a gentleman like you has helped bolster the small spurts of confidence that she had ever since she has found gainful employment, something that is unusual for a young woman of her station. Mind that you are not a crutch, but Edith's life has been made considerably brighter because of you. That is the truth, and I think you should have it._

 _I know that you love her. And my granddaughter loves you. I see it every day, when she talks about you._

 _When I was a young woman, I was wisely counselled by an aunt that if you find a love that gives you happiness that you radiate from it, hold on to it tightly, because a love like that does not come easily._

 _Will you let that slip away?_

 _Believe me, very sincerely yours, Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham._

Bertie read the letter over and felt the words burning his eyes. His initial reaction was, _"You interfering old bat, you absolutely have no idea."_

But she had a point.

He had let it slip away.

Now, Bertie forced himself to sift through memories-those that spanned a few weeks ago, a few months ago. She had been trying to tell him.

 _I only hope I'm worth it._

At that time he wondered what that meant. It wasn't just one instance, it was a host of other memories bubbling up. And now, he would have to open the telegram. He opened it, and he had to squint.

It was from Lady Mary Talbot, Edith's older sister.

* * *

Bertie found that he couldn't tear himself away from the telegram. He wondered if he was seeing things. Lady Mary, sending him a telegram? Sighing, he read the message.

"THIS IS LADY MARY TALBOT EDITH'S SISTER STOP HENRY AND I SEND OUR SINCEREST CONDOLENCES STOP I WOULD LIKE TO ASK WHEN WOULD BE A SUITABLE TIME TO RING YOU UP STOP IT IS ABOUT EDITH STOP SHE IS ALL RIGHT STOP THERE IS NO NEED TO WORRY STOP SHE DOES NOT KNOW THAT I SENT YOU THIS TELEGRAM STOP."

Bertie was about to read it the second time when the phone rang, and was startled to see Coleraine, his butler, poking his head into the doorway. "There's a phone call for you, my lord," the butler informed him. "It's Lady Mary Talbot. She's…waiting on the line." Bertie only nodded, stood up, and followed the butler.

* * *

Mary Josephine Talbot toyed with the phone cord as she waited for Lord Hexham to go on the line.

If he ever went on the line. She understood it if he hadn't, as she remembered the Marquess' face when she told him about Marigold.

 _And, oh, he did._ "Hello, good afternoon, Lady Mary, what can I do for you?"

Mary took a deep breath. "I've rang you up because of Edith. And…to apologise as well." Again, she toyed with the cord. Bertie Pelham's voice sounded a bit glacial. But Bertie replied. "What are you going to apologise about?"

"About Marigold. I didn't know you didn't know yet. It wasn't my secret to tell. I should have waited. The truth is, Edith and I have always been at odds, and that's an understatement. But I know that she loves you very much and she is heartbroken now that…"

"Now that we've split up," was the truculent response from the other line.

"Yes," Mary replied lamely. "Can I ask you something, Lord Hexham?"

"Of course, Lady Mary."

"Please," Mary half-pleaded. "It's just Mary. Do you…do you still love my sister?"

Bertie barrelled on. "With all my heart, Lady Mary. She's still in my mind. I love her very much. I've been meaning to write to her—or your father, at least. To ask for forgiveness."

Hope leaped into Mary's heart. "I want to do my sister a good turn," she finally said, after a moment's silence. "I have a plan. She's going up to London—Henry will be driving her to London tomorrow morning as she had to be there on urgent business-and Henry needs to meet someone.. What if we arrange a dinner at The Ritz?" she asked tentatively, letting Bertie decide.

"Yes, L—Mary. Dinner at the Ritz would be perfect. At what date, exactly? I have to be back at Brancaster at the end of the week as I need to meet with my agent," Bertie replied, careful to conceal the eagerness in his voice.

* * *

At the other end of the line, Lady Mary Talbot still toyed with the phone cord, as she scanned the calendar. "Would the 25th of August do? It's only Monday today—I heard Edith tell my mother that she will be in London for a fortnight, at least—as she has made arrangements with a decorator for my niece Marigold's room." Confidentially, Mary went on, "I think she's making plans to stay in London permanently as Marigold will be going to school in the city."

"Edith intends to stay in London for good?" Bertie croaked.

"Yes, well at least that's what I gathered." _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Mary thought, as she continued, "I could be wrong, of course. Edith and I have only just mended fences and I do not have her confidence on a regular basis, so I couldn't be sure. Maybe…you could convince her otherwise."

"I'm going to do my best," promised Bertie.

"I'm sure you would," was Mary's warm reply. "Right, I'm going to get Aunt Rosamund to send Edith a letter inviting her to dinner at the Ritz on the 25th. I wish you all the luck, Bertie."

"Lady Mary? Can I ask you something?" Bertie inquired instead.

"Absolutely, Lord Hexham."

"Why are you doing this for Edith? For me?"

"As I've said before, Edith and I are mending fences. It…it has a lot to do with what she told me on my wedding to Henry. And I agree with her."

"What did she say to you?" Bertie was curious.

"I think you'd better ask her. I wish you all the best of luck, Bertie."


End file.
